This was a story I began for an old competition with my writers’ group, but didn’t submit. I couldn’t get it short enough to fit the word limit with so heavy a theme. Some of you will find it controversial, but at its heart it’s a repeat of old mantras, such as not taking anything you live with for granted, don’t believe everything you hear and see, or two wrongs don’t make a right. I hope it gives you food for thought as well.
From the memoirs of Steven Woods, Haringey, London, UK, 6th January, this year
Have you ever heard the phrase; New Year, New You?
How about; New Year, New World? Because that’s what I feel I’m facing here. Not just me either; the whole civilised world is being rethought and remade even as we watch. But to build the new, the old has to be destroyed and trust me, there’s going to be a lot of destruction.
I’ve been through a serious adventure these past two years. That might sound cool and exciting but believe me, it’s not. It’s pretty bloody scary when you’re in it. The excitement only comes later, or from observers. Luckily, I wasn’t in it alone. My great friend and colleague of many years, Richard Canning, was in it with me, as was a mysterious and intelligent companion we’ve never really met but have come to trust beyond all else.
Together, we three have exposed and brought down some dangerous and powerful people who wanted a better world for everyone, but didn’t care who got hurt along the way. There have been repercussions for people we cared about, and from the looks of it, the world as a whole. Even so, I put regrets aside. A better world must be built in the right way, without innocent people suffering. I’m glad I contributed to that, whatever the consequences for me.
The mundane things in life haven’t gone away yet; the Christmas decorations need taking down, the bathroom sink needs unblocking again and with Molly gone, it’s got to be me to do it. Sadly, the road ahead looks like a dangerous one, so while I’m still able, I’m going to leave the little things aside and write down as much of this adventure as I can recall. I’ll store copies of it in multiple locations just in case the worst happens and someone tries to silence my story, God forbid.
Anyway, let me ease you into the narrative of my adventure by introducing my workplace, my enemies and their mission, not necessarily in that order…
The Fleet Street Herald daily newspaper, est. 1887
Our motto is; Liberum cadere et tyrannis verba. “Free words and tyrants shall fall.”
The Hippolyta Club, est. 1967
Begun by Lady Anne Wynstanley, wife of a Tory peer, membership is exclusively female and offered to any woman who has become highly distinguished in any academic or professional field. 10 years is the minimum duration any member must have remained in her chosen field. (Its youngest ever member was 32 on joining.)
In its 50-year history, the Hippolyta’s membership has grown from 25 to more than 300. From their headquarters in the distinguished London borough of Belgravia, they have done and continue to do exceptional work for the empowerment of women in numerous fields of endeavour, nationally and internationally.
Extract from The Guardian, 23rd August two years ago
Today, one of the UK’s last remaining glass ceilings shattered as for the first time, the post of Vice Sea Lord of the Admiralty has been taken up by a woman. Vice Admiral Hannah Watkins MBE was chosen for this position following the dismissal of Fleet Admiral Alistair Carnavon earlier this month, after allegedly leaking of sealed documents to the Chinese Government. A 30-year navy veteran, Ms. Watkins was cheered by ecstatic, mostly female crowds as she was driven into the MOD Building at Whitehall to formally take up her position. There is no word yet on what consequences Mr. Carnavon will face.
Fairly standard events for our time, eh? Well, everyone sees the headlines, but how many of us know what really made them? Me and Richard certainly hadn’t, as we found out a month later…
New Fleet Street Herald offices, Cripplegate, London, 4:03 PM, 20th September two years ago
I was concentrating on proof-reading my latest report when Richard Canning swaggered up to me. You’ve got to swagger a bit as an investigative reporter. It allows you to get your nose in further than people want you to.
“Alright, Steve?” Richard quipped. “Like the hair. I didn’t know the Osmonds were coming back.”
“Huh! I didn’t know fake chest hair was coming back either,” I shot back, tickling the strands of curly hair sticking out from under Rick’s unbuttoned shirt. He swatted my hand away.
“Yeah, yeah, and the rest of it. Steve, check out this text I received a few minutes ago.”
I took his iPhone and read the text. I needed to look closer to check I hadn’t misread.
Alistair Carnavon’s dismissal was manufactured. I can tell you more, but must meet discreetly. You may bring Steven Woods, but NO-ONE ELSE. Meet me at 23:00 tonight, your paper’s old offices.
“What d’you make of it, Steve?” Rick said with a shrug.
“It’s… intriguing,” I told him. “I’d put it down to some Fake News conspiracy or other, but the guy who sent this had some pretty good facts on his side. He clearly knows about my working relationship to you and that we trust each other. That’s bloody well-informed.”
“So shall we take the bait, then Steve?” Rick asked me.
I scratched my chin, weighed up the pros and cons, then shrugged my shoulders.
“’S not much to go on, but I’ve nabbed a good story on the back of shakier leads. Let’s go, Rick. If we’re wrong, all we’d waste is an hour at best.”
“Hey, Steve!” a raucous voice called. “How’s that proof-reading coming? I hope you an’ Rick aren’t gon’ delay my print run with ya chats!”
It was our Kenyan-born senior editor, Jocasta Kathenge, poking her head out of her office and looking daggers at us. Rick and me had a good relationship with her, but she Jocasta runs a tight ship and doesn’t stand for slacking or missed deadlines.
“’S alright, Jocasta, darling,” I nodded. “I’ll get on it.”
“Lessa the darlin’, boy. Just get on it!” she squawked, before ducking back into her office.
“Right, Rick,” I said, “Send a reply and tell this bloke we’re coming. I’ll tell Molly to get dinner ready but record tonight’s movie.”
“I’ll tell Sandy the same. Here goes.”
Rick rattled off a text and copied my number in.
We’ll be there, 11PM sharp. How shall we recognise you? May we know your name? RC
The reply was rapid and succinct.
Just call me Promethea. Never mind recognising me; I’ll find you. Don’t be late or bring a stranger or I shan’t linger.
The old Fleet Street Herald offices, now disused, 10:58 PM the same night
It often amazed me how so much of my paper’s proud history could be traced back to a rubble-filled hole less than quarter of a kilometre from the Savoy Hotel. But that was how it was the year before last. The old Fleet Street Herald offices, home to a ground-breaking and crusading paper from 1887 until 1983, had at that time been demolished to make way for a state-of-the-art low-cost hotel. A metal fence lined with plastic mesh surrounded the building, which Rick and I stood beside to wait for our informant. It wasn’t a pleasant wait. Autumn was closing in early and we were struggling to keep warm in our light summer jackets.
“How’ll he approach us stealthily, Rick?” I grumbled. “There’s clubbers everywhere.”
“Well, I’ll bet this bloke’s thought of that,” Rick said testily. “He must be in disguise or something.”
“He?” a strange voice said in ironic tones. “Oh, what would they say at the Hippolyta if they knew men were still making those kind of assumptions…”
We jumped a foot. The dry, enigmatic voice was that of a woman! It was coming from behind the safety fence, where a short, slight figure shrouded in black was just visible behind the plastic mesh.
“Promethea?” I asked.
“Quiet, Mr. Woods,” the voice said curtly. “Pretend to whisper in Mr. Canning’s ear.”
Rick and me huddled up and did as ordered. It’s pretty awkward for two straight guys to get so close, even great friends, but Promethea sounded very insistent and we didn’t want to lose a lead to a great story. She leant in as close as the fence allowed and continued to speak.
“There is a dark force at work in the world, gentlemen. The demand for positive, progressive change in the common people is insatiable and must be filled, by whatever means necessary. And there are some who are willing to cross the line to see that the right kind of progress is made.”
“So the old Vice Sea Lord was framed, like you said?” I whispered.
“Yes, Mr. Woods, and not just him. The problem is bigger than you can possibly imagine. Have you ever heard of the Hippolyta Club?”
“Is that the posh women’s rights group?”
“Exactly right. A secret cabal of its members has been manufacturing the fall of powerful men in favour of women almost since its inception. They’ve worked in the shadows, pulling the strings and exploiting the very guilt perpetuated by identity politics to achieve their goals. They hide behind their righteousness, confident in the belief that their actions can’t ever be stopped because that would go against all this age stands for. But feminist though I am, I don’t believe the end justifies the means, so I have made the difficult choice to attempt to expose them. It’ll be an uphill struggle gathering enough evidence to take to court, but I can give you this to begin with.”
Promethea slipped a thin manila file through the bars of the fence. I took it and opened it. Inside were printed lists of names and contact details; all men. I was sure I recognised a couple.
“Follow these names up, gentlemen,” she said drily. “Research them, interview them, find out more. I’ll contact you again once we both gather more evidence. From now on, contact with you is purely at my discretion. Good night, gentlemen. Watch your backs and good luck.”
She disappeared into the shadows, leaving a thousand questions hanging in the air.
Editor’s desk, Fleet Street Herald offices, 1:23 PM, 21st September two years ago
Jocasta listened to our story of last night’s events and studied the contents of Promethea’s file. She frowned as she did so.
“I d’ya know, boys. Dere could be big trouble with dis one.”
“Because the Hippolyta Club might rub us out?” said Rick.
“Nah, Rick. I’m tinkin’ of the bigger picture. Dere’s a lotta people ‘could use dis to turn ‘tings around for women. Is like a powder keg and people could say we struck de match.”
“Come on, Jocasta, luv,” I insisted, “You might have struggled to get where you are today, but what if this is real? Do you want men losing their jobs and reputations, even their freedom, because some spiteful women in an ivory tower think the world should be forced to fit their ideals, whatever the cost? Feminism is meant to be based on fairness. Does this sound fair to you?”
I could just see the wheels in Jocasta’s head turning. She knew I was right; she had struggled with prejudice in rising to be where she was. But she knew just as well as Rick and me that the Fleet Street Herald was founded with the core aim of bringing evil down. It was a belief older than she was, older than women’s voting rights, maybe as old as civilisation itself. That was the world she had made the choice, herself, to enter.
“OK Steve, you boys get t’ree weeks. Follow up dese leads and see what you get. We’ll give it more time if it bears fruit. But we drop it if not.”
It was a fair cop, and Rick and me set to work without delay. At the start, we expected that about half the names would turn out to be dead ends, or the men’s downfall would be partly or wholly their own fault.
Nothing could have prepared us for the truth.
Extracts from transcripts of various interviews conducted by myself, Steven Woods, and Richard Canning, 22nd September – 7th October last year
“I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw all the entries the MLCO had highlighted. I didn’t know any of those names on my bank records, but I was receiving thousands of pounds from them every year, tax free.”
“When my urine sample came back it showed traces of ecstasy and cocaine. It was like the floor had dropped away beneath me. I don’t even eat chocolate, let alone take drugs! I demanded a retest, but not even the union supported me.”
“I work in the banking industry! I work amicably with Jewish people all the time! I’ve even attended one or two bar mitzvahs. Why would I think Hitler was a hero?”
“Not only am I accused of touching up a girl I don’t even fancy, but now 20 pornography mags are stashed in my locker! Texts have gone out from my phone sending creepy messages to total strangers! What the hell is going on here?”
“Why would I send out a tweet that said Sodomites should hang? My cousin’s gay and I’d be devastated if anyone harmed him because of it.”
“I thought back over that afternoon again and again, and I can’t think how it happened. But I know I shredded those files.”
“Even as I pleaded my innocence, I could see no-one at that hearing believed me.”
“My own wife was denouncing me. What kind of power did these people have?”
“They say 1 in 20 people in prison is innocent. Meet the latest statistic, Mr. Woods.”
New Fleet Street Herald offices, 4:52 PM, 28th October two years ago
I had just e-mailed a side bar for page 7 to the news desk when Rick clapped me on the shoulder.
“Steve, follow me! We’ve got to go see Jocasta. No time to explain!”
He dragged me over to Jocasta’s office, knocked and entered before she even had time to respond.
“Jocasta! My source has just texted me and said she’s sending over vital information pertaining to the Hippolyta Club story!”
“Dat’s great!” Jocasta said cheerfully. “I’ve had every spare reporter on dat case and no’ting concrete. Any’ting else?”
“She says; ‘Look out for a small white car outside the office at about five to five’.”
BOOM! Everyone in the office looked up with a start. A thunderous explosion, followed a moment later by the tinkle of breaking glass falling, came from the street below the office.
“Bloody hell! What was that?” Rick yelled.
“We’d better go and see,” I said, sounding braver than I felt.
We raced downstairs like Olympic sprinters, only to find a scene that made my heart sink. A white Volkswagen Polo stood blazing on the street just outside the office, blown apart by an explosion. It was impossible to see if there was anyone inside, but if they were, they couldn’t still be alive.
“Bugger!” I gasped. “You don’t think was Promethea in there, do you?”
“Who knows? She might just have… STEVE! WATCH OUT!”
His warning came too late. The wind was knocked from me as a disreputable looking youth ran up to us and collided with such force that I nearly fell. The miscreant didn’t stop running and was soon half way down the street.
“IDIOT!” I yelled.
“Was that a pickpocket, Steve?” asked Rick.
“I don’t know, Rick,” I said, padding myself down. “I’ve still got my wallet and my mobile’s… Wait a minute, what’s this?”
Patting down my inside jacket pocket, I felt something long, slender and unfamiliar to me. I reached in like Little Jack Horner and pulled out a long, black USB drive. Confusion turned to delight and triumph as I beheld it. I even laughed.
“Rick, we’ve done it. If Promethea is dead, then her ghost is smiling at us right now.”
Headline of the Fleet Street Herald, 10th January last year
CORRUPTION AND CONSPIRACY AT ONE OF LONDON’S MOST RESPECTED CLUBS
Today, it is resolutely proven that not even progressive and liberal institutions are above corruption, as we expose the duplicity and corruption right at the heart of the prestigious Hippolyta Club…
Promethea’s USB stick gave Rick and me the evidence we need to finally put together what was to prove one of the Fleet Street Herald’s most astonishing exposés ever. Police investigations soon followed, as did appeals and apologies for many of the men who had been wronged. Some of the women who had benefited from the actions of the Hippolyta Cabal, as it came to be known, respectfully stood down. They had apparently not been aware of the Cabal’s actions and were dismayed that they had benefitted from the suffering of innocent men.
But every silver lining has a cloud. Our article did indeed light the fuse on a powder keg, just as Jocasta had predicted…
Newspaper headlines from March to August last year…
PROTESTORS PICKET INTERNATIONAL WOMEN’S DAY MARCHES IN 28 CITIES
COMPANIES SUSPEND AFFIRMATIVE ACTION PROGRAMS PENDING INVESTIGATIONS OF TAMPERING
VANDALS THROW FEMINIST LITERATURE ON BONFIRE OUTSIDE LIBRARY
TIDAL WAVE OF MISOGYNY ON TWITTER, WITH 2300 ACCOUNTS SUSPENDED
SECURITY STAFF AT GLASTONBURY REFUSE TO EXPEL FESTIVAL GOERS FOR MISOGYNISTIC FLAGS
“WE MUST NOT LET THE CLOCK BE TURNED BACK ON WOMEN’S RIGHTS,” PLEADS DUCHESS OF SUSSEX
IS ANTI-FEMINIST TERRORISM ON ITS WAY?
And it wasn’t just the world that suffered. One July afternoon, I came home to my flat to find Molly no longer there and a Dear John letter on the kitchen sideboard. Apparently three of her friends had broken up with her because of me and her Aunt Teresa would no longer have her to visit. She had to go for her own sanity. I didn’t pursue her, and neither did Rick when Sandy left him.
I guess everyone who pushes the envelope suffers somehow. Still, Rick and I have remained friends, as we will continue to be to all who’ve suffered repercussions in the name of justice…
Editor’s desk, Fleet Street Herald offices, 5th September last year
“Come in!” Jocasta snapped.
Of course, she was in a bad mood. Her door was open anyway, so she could easily see Rick and me sheepishly and pointlessly reaching up to knock. There was no bravado in our hearts as we brought in the gift hamper, card and flowers and laid them on her now empty desk.
“A parting gift from all the lads and gals in the office, Jocasta,” Rick said.
“We’re going to miss you,” I said, meaning it with all my heart. “A lot it’s our fault, you know.”
Jocasta sighed, and managed a smile as she placed the photo of her mother in a Sainsbury’s bag.
“Is OK, Steve. My fault too. Besides, de world’s goin’ mad over what happened. They gotta be appeased somehow. Keep doin’ the good work ya doin’. You nailed those ladies an’ now they got egg on their faces. Dat much we can be content with.”
“Enjoy retirement, Jocasta,” I said, smiling back. “We’ll do you proud.”
She winked, balanced her bags on top of the gifts, and walked off to the applause of everyone seated at the desks around her. Rick and me clapped too.
Newspaper headlines from October to December last year…
HIPPOLYTA CLUB CONFIRMS; “THE BAD SEEDS HAVE BEEN ROOTED OUT”
INTERNATIONAL MEN’S DAY MARCH DESCRIBED AS “ENJOYABLE, PEACEFUL AND SUCCESSFUL FOR NEARLY ALL”
EXONERATED VICE SEA LORD STAR OF CHRISTMAS LIGHTS SWITCH-ON
“BLOODY BUT UNBOWED;” GRANDDAUGHTER OF HIPPOLYTA CLUB’S FOUNDER QUOTES FAVOURITE POEMS IN TOUCHING FESTIVE MESSAGE
So, as you can see, the worst appeared to be over. Rick and I had pleasant Christmases and the Hippolyta Cabal seemed to be finished. It seemed to be…
12:30 AM, 1st January this year
I was ringing in the New Year in my favourite pub, checking out the ladies in case one of them proved a nice tonic for losing Molly, when a text came through on my phone. It was from an unknown number. I nearly dropped the phone when I read it.
Something terrible is about to happen. I have vital information for you. Meet me in 4 hours at your office. Promethea
Then came a text message from Rick.
Steve, someone set off a bomb at the Hippolyta Club. 10 people are dead. Get over here. Rick
From the memoirs of Steven Woods, Haringey, London, UK, 6th January, this year
So, there you have it. If Rick and me lit the fuse, then the powder kegs are blowing up now. I don’t know where things are going, but the world certainly isn’t going back to what it was. All I can do for now is stay on my toes and hope for long life and better times. And the same to all of you who find this.
Goodbye.
rpatersonwriting 